treated with silence.
I didn’t know when they’d identify Idabell. Los Angeles is a vast complex of unassociated towns and municipalities. The bureaucracies didn’t communicate well and so Idabell’s identity might take a day or two to surface.
The storm dominated the headlines. The Congolese and a political science teacher who claimed that the Russians had framed him for a spy were below that. Idabell’s death was ignored by the radio and TV and newspapers.
Ignored by everyone except me—me and the little yellow dog.
But for a while I put revenge out of my mind. I rolled up my sleeves and started to get ready for dinner with my kids.
I decided to go Mexican because the kids loved it and it was a lot of preparing. I defrosted a large stack of corn tortillas that Flower kept me stocked with. Flower was a Panamanian but she learned Mexican cuisine because that was all that Primo would eat—at home.
I deseeded dried
I grated my yellow cheddar and Monterey Jack. There was the ground beef and chicken to saute, separately of course.
When the meat started steaming, Pharaoh slinked into the room. He crouched down and growled while he sniffed. He wanted some food but I’d be damned if I ever fed a mouth that bit me. The food I cook is too good for that.
I love to cook. When I was a boy down in Louisiana, and later on in Texas, I spent many a day with no food and no prospects. So when a piece of meat or some grain passed my way I knew what to do. Preparing a meal for me was like going to church; there was a miracle and a deep satisfaction in my soul.
It wasn’t until I was heating lard in a large iron skillet that I started thinking about my problems again. It hardly seemed real; two dead brothers and a woman too. I couldn’t imagine my simple little working life at Sojourner Truth mixed up with murder and death.
It had to be money. I lit a Camel and watched the steady gas flame under the black pan. It had to be money. That phrase played over about twenty-five times in my mind but it didn’t lead anywhere.
I dipped a stiff tortilla into the hot lard. Instantly it took on the texture of a wet sheet of paper. I immersed the flimsy bread into the sauce and then flattened it out on a plate. I put a line of chicken down the center of that one, rolled it all up, and placed it in its corner of a large ceramic baking dish.
Whoever killed Idabell wanted that croquet set; that child’s toy and revenge.
She and her husband, and his brother, stole it from him. He wanted his property—and the people who stole it. Bonnie had said that she hadn’t seen Idabell in months, but that was a lie. Idabell said that they had gone to Paris together and, to prove it, the killer was waiting for Bonnie to come home. Maybe Bonnie knew more than Idabell thought.
Dear Bonnie,
I just wanted to leave you a note and tell you again that I couldn’t help what I did. If there was any other way I would have come to you first. But I couldn’t have taken that chance.
I know that I can’t make it up to you. All I can say is that I have paid dearly for the wrong they’ve done. I’ve lost my husband, my home, and my job. I’ll probably never see you again and so I’ve also lost the best friend that I ever had.
I hope that you’ll forgive me one day.
Your friend always,
Idabell
Along with the letter I had three scraps of paper from her purse. A laundry receipt, something that looked like a restaurant tab with the amounts in francs, and, finally, there was a handwritten note. The note read “William, Whitehead’s.” There was an address scrawled at the bottom.
I PUT THE TRAY OF ENCHILADAS in the refrigerator to keep until dinnertime. Then I chopped tomatoes, Bermuda onions, and a little green pepper together with ripe avocado to make a light relish-like salad. I laced it with lime and a touch of cayenne (I couldn’t make it too hot because then Feather wouldn’t be able to eat it).
The rice I baked in a tomato sauce mixed with minced garlic and two hot peppers. I sprinkled in a handful of tiny dried shrimps to give my kids a treat.
THE HOUSE WAS SMELLING pretty good when Jesus and Feather came bursting in the door. Pharaoh went mad whimpering, wagging, and licking all over Feather.
“You better feed that dog,” I told her.
“Can we keep him?”
“No. His mother be back the middle’a next week. She said that she’ll come and get him.” I still planned to take Pharaoh out to Primo.
“Come on,” Feather whispered to the dog.
“What you gonna give him?” I called out into the kitchen. “I don’t want him eating anything that I cooked.”
“I bought him some dog food with the grocery money, Dad,” Jesus said.
“You did, huh?”
Juice nodded and looked at my feet.
“Did you put any’a that money upstairs in your soldier box?”
